


got a million ugly words for what you are

by spock



Category: Slow West (2015)
Genre: Angst, Bathing/Washing, Break Up, Canon Compliant, Crueltide, Developing Relationship, Facial Shaving, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Marking, One-sided/Unequal Relationship, Pre-Movie(s), Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 22:20:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5472644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spock/pseuds/spock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes they run into one another, chasing after the same bounty. Every single member of Payne's gang knows that he'll always let Silas collect on it, even the new ones that joined after Silas had already been long gone. Nary a one of them mentions Silas by name, though, especially when Payne's around. Some days, he really wishes that they would. Others, he's grateful for the reprieve. </p><p>He thinks about Silas enough as it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	got a million ugly words for what you are

**Author's Note:**

  * For [idareu2bme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/idareu2bme/gifts).



A boy's been trailing after them for the past three days, lurking around the outskirts of wherever they've set camp for the night. He does a good job of hiding damn near any trace of his ever having been there at all, making sure to stay just outside of the gang's line of sight. On the fourth day Payne finally realizes that the few traces he'd found, and which he’d originally thought were left behind as the result of a beginner’s mistake, were left on purpose. It's then that his interest is piqued.

They're close enough to Casper to make the ride into town before nightfall, even with the encroaching winter forcing the days to be shorter than they have any right being. Payne tells the boys that they're getting proper rooms for the night and lets himself bask in their cheers, unsarcastic; a rarity that deserves to be enjoyed. He makes sure to get himself a room on the ground floor, at the farthest end of the hall, one that has a window facing the side of the general store just beside the boarding house they've shacked up at, as well as the darkened dirt walkway that keeps the two buildings separate.

Payne opens the window a smidgen and douses all the lamps, leaving the room dark. He sits on the floor, back against the wall that's directly opposite the window, and sets about sharpening his knives. He's just about finished with the whole lot of them when a pair of eyes peek up from under the windowsill and widen at the sight of Payne. The blade of Payne’s knife glints ever so slightly in the low light of the moon as he shifts his grip on the hilt with each pass he gives it over the sharpening stone.

"There you are," Payne says. The kid blinks. Payne sighs. "Well, come on in. I've been waiting for you. Sitting in the dark ain't my idea of fun, I'll have you know."

He stands and starts to relight the lamps, one by one, until the room is bathed in a hazy yellow glow and plenty of shadows. The kid is still standing outside the window, expression dubious at best. "Open the window and climb your ass in here or close it and skedaddle. I plan on taking a bath sometime tonight and I'll be damned if I have my bits freeze off because of that chill."

A strange look settles across the boy’s face for a second, but just as quickly as it arrived, it's gone. He shoves his fingers — long, thin things, hardened in a way that proves he's had just as rough a go at life as Payne's had, even though there has to be at least ten years between 'em — through the small crack of an opening and shoves the window up until the gap is big enough for him to step through. He closes it as gently as a proper guest would close the front door behind themselves. Payne finds himself charmed.

"So what can I do for you, kid?" Payne asks.

"I'm not a kid." He's got a nice voice. Payne's always had a particular fondness for hearing himself speak, but he thinks that he wouldn't mind trying to turn this boy into someone chatty and shutting up himself for a change, just to hear the cadence of that voice once it really gets going.

"'course you're not," Payne agrees. "Well, suppose you're trying to change that, right? Looking to become an outlaw? Well, I hate to break it to you..." Payne dwindles off, waiting.

The kid stays silent, unrelenting. Payne doesn't mind.

He starts taking off his shirt, working each button through his fingers until they're all undone, setting it down on the bed, then following up with his pants. He's got two layers of long johns on, his body too thin for the late-autumn Wyoming chill, especially when the gang spends most of their nights camped out in the wilderness, him using a snowbank as a pillow more often than not.

Payne picks up one of his knives but leaves his gun belt behind, stuffing his feet into his boots. "Come on then, Jonny," he says, waving at the kid and opening up the door. They walk down the hallway to the small closet's worth of space that the place they've shacked up at has deemed fit to use as a bathing room, though it's nothing more than a glorified wood cask sawed in half with a little wooden burner in the corner, bucket and pump beside it for gathering and heating water both. The kid keeps a pace or so between himself and Payne's back, never close enough to step on his heels but always within grabbing distance. Payne wonders what it says about him that he feels more comfortable with some strange kid at his back than said kid is with having Payne at his front.

Inside the room, Payne pulls off both pairs of his johns and stands there naked, pushing the knuckles of his toes against the grain of the barrel, testing it out. "Do me a favor and start pouring some of that water in, Charlie." Satisfied that the wood still has enough life in it not to collapse, Payne steps over the sides and seats himself.

The kid sighs and walks over to the stove, pushing his shirtsleeves up to his elbows. Payne finds a wonderful sort of novelty in being obeyed without question. "You're alright, Roy. I could get used to this." The water that's poured right onto his groin is just a shade shy of too-hot, and Payne hisses his discomfort, grinding out, _shiiiiiiiiii-et_ from between his teeth.

"Silas," the kid says, monotone. Payne forgets about the tender skin of his groin.

"Well I hate to break it to you, _Silas_ , but my gang's racket is bounty huntin'."

A few more bucketfuls are poured over him, just as close to boiling as the first, though now that he’s gotten used to the heat it's more welcome than it had originally been. The water's up past Payne’s navel when Silas says, "From what I've seen, you lot dabble in outlawin' as much as you do tracking down bounties, 'cept you hide it better." He steps back over to the stove for what'll be the final bucketful of bathwater.

Payne's killed people for insinuating less. The distance that Silas keeps between Payne and himself makes it obvious that Silas knows that much as well. Payne likes that he still had it in him to say it anyway.

 

* * *

 

When the gang sets out the next morning, it's with one more than they came into town.

Silas hasn't got a horse of his own and Payne wouldn't buy him a one even if he had the funds to burn. The looks his boys have been sending him are all firmly planted in the amused territory, with more than a few leers tossed in, but Payne knows from experience that all goodwill goes right out the window once someone gets something they think hadn’t been earned.

Besides, this way Silas has no other choice but to hop up onto Payne's own colt for them to ride double, Silas settled nicely between Payne's thighs. Once they clear the town's territory, Payne hands the reins up to him and settles his hands on Silas' hips, nodding his head a few times until his hat finally dips down low on his forehead and the brim shields his eyes from the sun. He hadn't gotten much sleep the night before.

After the bath he'd taken Silas back to his room and talked at him for a few hours, laying naked in the bed with just the sheet covering himself from view, which wasn't saying much since he'd still been damp from the water and the thin white fabric had stuck to all the places he'd wanted Silas's eyes to catch on, though Silas kept himself firmly seated in the uncomfortable looking chair on the other side of the room. In-between bouts of dozing, he'd muttered stories, more for his own benefit than Silas'. Once he'd woken up to see Silas finally nodding off himself, Payne told Silas that he'd better at least sleep at the end of the bed, otherwise he'd be of no use to to Payne in the morning, should his heart really be set on joining up with the gang.

Awakening to the feel of Silas' feet pressing into his hip had been a welcome change to the past seven-or-so months of solitude he’d been having, and that more than anything is what's made Payne agree to this tryout.

One of the reasons Payne left the Northeast was because his interest never could be extended towards women. He'd heard whispered tales of how in the West, a man would be looked at funny if he hadn't shacked up with a boy at least once, unnatural as it was to hold back from such desires. That'd made-up his mind like nothing else could’ve and he'd left within the week, leaving his daddy a note about how he'd write to him once he got settled. Payne still hasn't gotten around to it, though he tells himself that it's because he's still far from _settled_.

His boys have always known the score and more than half of them have a similar story as to their Manifest Destiny origins, and so none of them have ever begrudged Payne his tagalongs. Still, the frequency to which he's indulged himself has died off within the handful of years.

He's never cared for his boys to be young, not even when he’d been young himself; softness never held a lick of appeal, and neither did subservience. Quiet, stoic, well-built men like Silas though, they can get Payne to falling all over himself if they just so much as blink at him in the right way, especially if they have those long, ginger-blond eyelashes like Silas has.

With each passing birthday, he's realized that those types of men usually don't have the patience for him, especially now that he's somehow managed to survive into his late twenties, especially since they typically like some flavor of subservience to come along with their interactions, something that Payne has never quite managed to fake, and which he doesn't possess a single natural instinct for.

It'll take some work to get Silas to take a shine to him, of that Payne is sure. What's worse is that he'll be spending half his time trying to make his boys see Silas as anything more than a bedwarmer for their leader, the lot of them far less trusting than they have any cause to be when he hasn't ever led them astray before.

Payne's always been glad to wait and see how things shake out, one hand on his gun while he keeps a firm grip on himself, waiting to see which of the two he'll end up using to solve a situation. He doesn't expect this to be anything different.

 

* * *

 

The first job Silas helps them with is a proper bounty. "Dead or alive," Payne says, passing the bi-fold to Silas over his shoulder. They're still sharing a horse until Silas saves up enough to buy his own, or until they kill someone he can appropriate one from, whichever comes first.

It's not the only thing they're sharing. Every night Payne has Silas lay his bedroll right next to Payne’s own. Sometimes it feels like he's been hard since the moment Silas' eyes peeked into his window and Payne had finally gotten himself a good look at the ghost who’d been haunting him and his.

He refuses to act on it, mostly on principal. It's why he's sitting in front this afternoon; didn't seem like having his dick poking against Silas' spine actually counted as not-acting-on-it.

Truth be told, he's also realized that the wait has turned him on even more, which is something he hadn't known about himself before this. It's slightly worrying.

"Dead or _dead_ ," Don corrects. Payne feels Silas tense up against his back.

Payne shoots Don a dirty look, which has the older man look suitably chastised. "Why don't you go on and scout ahead, Don," Payne says. "Make yourself useful."

Don does as he's told.

It takes another twenty minutes to reach their outlaw's camp, out in the middle of nowhere and just close enough to where the Natives like to hunt that Payne's sure the poor bastard wouldn't have survived many days longer than he already has even if they hadn’t found him.

That's what he tells Silas, anyway, who looks green in the gills when Ben shoots the poor bastard before he can finish trying to fish his gun out from the tangle of his blankets. When all's said and done, not a one of them even has to get down from their horses, 'cept for Don, who Payne's still pissed at and who he puts in charge of rounding up the corpse.

"Once we collect what's ours, I figure that filly'll be yours, Silas," Payne says, nodding at what used to be 'Bad' Lee MacDonnal's horse. The thought of losing Silas’ warm chest makes it painful for him to say it, but the kid clearly needs cheerin’ up. Desperate times, and all that.

 

* * *

 

Silas can grow a beard better than almost anyone Payne's ever met. It comes in thick and even, a contrast to Payne's own scraggly attempt, which manifests itself in patches that, after months, can manage to look like a consistent spread if Payne takes care to trim them right.

Sometimes Payne will wake up early just to catch sight of it in the approaching dawn, the diffused morning light turning the already wonderful shade of bronze into something otherworldly. Deep asleep like that, Silas finally looks his age, even with a beard that would seem just as natural on a man three times his age. He's so damned handsome that Payne usually frowns at the sight of him, still half-asleep himself and mad that something so sublime isn't under the same blanket as him, pressed up against his side.

Payne's pulling his frowning routine one morning, about four months into him knowing Silas, when Silas actually wakes up while Payne's doing it. He frowns right back at him, from dead asleep to grumpily awake, just like that. Payne hates that it makes him like Silas more.

"That night we met, you shave that thing off just to impress me?" Payne mutters. His head's wrapped up in a scarf, most of it bunched up around his mouth. The spring chill still hits hard in the mornings, though the days themselves have finally moved into being pleasant once the frost melts away. He's not quite sure that he's making sense, but Silas has proven to be resiliently skilled at understanding what it is that's at the heart of whatever given nonsense Payne has taken to sharing.

"No," Silas says. He works his hands free of his blankets and rubs at his eyes. "I'm not particularly fond of it." A hard gust of wind blows, and they both shiver. To Payne's surprise, Silas scoots closer across the forest's floor until there's no more room for the wind to slip between them.

"Then why don't you just get rid of it?" There's a part of Payne that's hoping this will finally be the time Silas says something like, _because I can tell how much you like it_. He's still sleepy enough to believe that there's actually a hell’s chance of it happening, too.

What does happen is that Silas' face bleeds into a warm, flushed pink, and his gaze drops away from Payne's, something that he's never done before, not even on the few occasions Payne's had to shout his head off, when Silas fucked up on a bounty or two and nearly cost them their mark. "I'm just teasin'," Payne promises. Somehow, it makes Silas blush all the more.

Payne decides right then and there that some part of his life will have to be devoted to getting Silas to blush more. He can’t consider his life having been lived after only having seen it the once, not when he'd made it happen on accident, and considering he isn't even awake enough to appreciate it properly.

"Haven't been around any barbers lately," Silas says, defensive as all get-out. He still hasn't looked back into Payne's eyes.

Payne wonders if he still has it in him to come untouched. It seems possible, just then.

It feels like someone else is in control of his body; he watches his hand come out of his blankets at touch Silas' cheek, fingertips scratching against his beard. He can't believe that it's him who says, "You really should know how to shave at your age. I'll teach you this morning, if you want. We gotta wait for Jimmy to get back with those supplies before we can head out, anyhow."

Silas nods. He doesn't comment on the gentle way Payne runs his hand along his face.

Payne goes through the rest of the morning in a daze. He hardly tastes his breakfast and wears his boots on the wrong feet for an hour before he finally notices his discomfort and thinks to switch them. Out of the corner of his eye he watches as Silas takes one of the boy’s beat-up pair of shears to his beard and trims it as short as he can manage.

Somehow, Payne manages to occupy himself until ten or thereabouts. He walks over to where Silas is tending to the fire just as any other man might make their trek to the gallows.

He leads Silas to a little brook just aways from where they've set up camp, knife gripped tight in his hand, towel shoved into the back of his pants. Silas trails after him with Payne's sharpening stone and another towel. When they reach it, Payne has Silas seat himself at one of the stones near the brook’s edge. He feels Silas' eyes on him as he dips his hands into the water and works the soap into a lather. The gaze stays with him as he walks back around to stand in front of Silas and work the soap onto his face, softening the bristles of his beard and slicking the skin beneath.

Silas is calm and still when Payne lays the blade flat against his neck. He realizes then that Silas is always calm when he's around him, like he knows that Payne will never do anything to harm him. He feels his hand start to shake; pulling back the knife, Payne flips it in his hand and passes it to Silas, handle first.

Payne pulls a cigar from his shirt pocket and then pats down his pants for a match, cursing when one doesn't make itself readily available. He actually jolts a bit when Silas seems to manifest one out of the ether, the flame flickering just shy of Payne's nose. He stiffens his lips so that the cigar lifts into the fire, and then breathes in deeply so that it'll light.

It does little to calm his nerves, but it does make him realize that he hasn't spoken in at least half an hour, which is the longest he's gone without doing so around Silas in the entirety of their acquaintance.

He takes the knife back and rests it against Silas' cheek this time. "First thing is to make sure the knife is as sharp as a razor," Payne says. "I took care of that already, of course, but make sure you don't ever take something dull to this pretty face of yours, Silas."

Payne slides the knife up in a smooth, even stroke until it clears Silas' cheekbone. "Keep it flat against your skin, and then it's just a smooth scrape. Make sure you're going against the grain, don't do anything fancy with it; 'specially not until you get used to what you're doin'." He's got a handful of the thick hair at Silas' nape, guiding his head this way and that as he takes the knife to his skin. Silas' eyes have dropped shut, his face relaxed.

When he's finally finished his last pass with the knife, Payne says, "Did you pay attention to any of that?" He gives Silas' head a gentle shake, careful to hold the knife down by his own leg.

"Sure." Silas' eyes slide open slowly, like a cat. He grins, lazily, big and wide and the happiest Payne has ever seen him. "You're always gonna be around to do it for me though, right? Doesn't quite seem all that pressing that I master it today."

It feels like the first time in his life that he’s actually at a loss for words.

Silas takes the spare towel draped over his knee and wipes his face down, removing the little excess streaks of soap. He stands, and the slight difference in height between him and Silas has never felt more exaggerated to him than it does now, as Silas looks down at him, still grinning. Payne feels back in that daze when Silas pulls the cigar from between his teeth and takes a hit for himself.

He lets his hand drop to rest by his thighs, cigar pinched between his fingers, and kisses Payne.

Payne can feel the tendrils of smoke leaking up from Silas' lungs as their mouths move together, lips getting slick from how deeply they’re kissing. Payne never wants it to stop, drops his knife to the floor and wrings his fingers into Silas' shirt, pulling them even more flush against one another. It's been a while since Payne's gotten his hair trimmed, so it's long enough for Silas to twist around his knuckles, easy for him to pull Payne's head back so that his neck is a straight line, one he takes his mouth to, licking and biting, lips catching and dragging deliciously against Payne's stubble.

"Maybe I should learn to shave just so that I can return the favor," Silas says, speaking into his skin.

Payne wants to say that Silas can do anything he wants, whenever he likes. So he does.

Silas laughs. "I'll hold you to that."

Payne walks back into camp with his neck a muddled mess of purples and greens.

 

* * *

 

Silas likes Payne best on his side, his thighs slicked up and pressed tightly together, squeezing around Silas' dick. He'll curl himself around Payne's body, face pressed into Payne's hair, muffling his grunts, one leg hooked over Payne's so that they're always pressed flush, no matter how hard he thrusts.

Payne makes sure to keep one of Silas' hands pressed to his mouth, the meat of his palm caught between Payne's teeth, the skin rough and weather-worn, something for him to focus on as Silas uses his body, something to ground him as Silas' other hand strokes him, cups him, drawing him closer to the brink.

"Payne," Silas says, voice twisted and strained. The wet heat of his breath warms Payne's ear, his neck. Their cheeks slip against each other. He let Payne have a go at shaving him earlier in the evening. He still prefers Silas with at least a bit of stubble — has _always_ liked himself with such, ever since he first was able to grow the meagerest of hair on his face — but the smooth glide of skin against skin isn’t half-bad neither.

“Payne,” Silas repeats himself, louder this name. "Let me hear you."

He groans and lets Silas' hand slip from between his lips. "Shit." Silas lets go of his prick and instead squeezes his hand between them where he’s thrusting against Payne, forcing it into the confined space rather than moving to give it any semblance of room. He dips his fingers into the cleft of Payne's behind and presses there, hard, unrelenting, until two of his fingers disappear up inside of Payne, working some of the oil from his thighs there. When Payne tries chokes out a grunt, something that comes from a place so deep inside of him, one that he'd nearly forgotten existed, the noise gets lost in his throat, and he can feel Silas' dick give a hard twitch from between his thighs.

"Let me," Silas begs. He uses the hand bearing Payne's bite marks to wrap in Payne's hair, ghosting his fingers at the nape of his neck. "I want to," Silas says, his voice hushed. "Just — just for a moment." It’s a promise that so many make but few can keep. Payne hopes that Silas falls into the latter category.

Silas pulls his fingers free and grabs hold of his prick, sliding it out from between Payne's thighs and pressing the head between his cheeks, catching against Payne's but never entering. Payne wonders if Silas has ever done this before, and the thought that it might be his first time makes him grow that much harder. It's the sort of thing he would ask, but every sound he lets out keeps getting trapped in his chest; he can't imagine trying to say an actual word.

Eventually, mostly by luck, Silas manages to slip the head inside of him, and he stops there, groaning long and hard, like it's the best thing he's ever felt, and now that he has, he can die. Payne reaches behind himself and digs his fingers into Payne's hip, wanting him closer, deeper. Silas stays where he is, just the tip of him inside of Payne's body, and comes. He's silent as he does, but his body shakes and jerks and tremors in a way that makes Payne want to jump out of his own skin.

Payne turns and twists his lower body until Silas is free of him. He rolls Silas onto his front, one hand wrapping tight around Silas' dick, still working him, while the other braces his weight on Silas' shoulder. He shoves himself between Silas' thighs, slicked only by sweat, rough with hair that's far thicker than what grows on Payne's own. The feel of it, his thighs, the way Silas' muscles spasm with his own continued pleasure, drawn out by how Payne’s still stroking him, has Payne spilling out himself, a slight empty ache inside of him reminding him just how much he misses being fucked, how now that he has Silas, it's an option again, something that Payne can enjoy regularly. The thought makes his orgasm just that much more intense, and he buries his face in Silas' neck just to _smell_ him, grabs and squeezes the muscle of his chest just to pull them closer together.

 

* * *

 

The winter that year is worse than the previous five combined. It's too cold to stay outside, which means that more nights than not have to be spent shacked up in a boarding house or hotel, and that they’ve gotta deal with the expenses that come with it.

They're not the only ones to come to that conclusion; their average competition for bounties increases about threefold while the number of bounties stays the same.

It's something that he explains to Silas more than once over the winter, whenever they're forced to be the outlaws that Silas had accused them of being, nearly two years ago by then. Payne had seen the excitement lingering in the depths of his eyes, then.

The shine of the lifestyle seems to have worn off for him now.

Payne's always seen breaking the law as the same as enforcing it, especially when he's getting payed either way. They do a few mercenary jobs here and there, taking out the competition for rich old cattle owners who don't care to play fair in matters of business. Silas always stays outside while the rest of the gang rifle through the possessions of old bastards who won't need what they had once they get to where they're going, bleeding out on the floor with no help on the way.

Sometimes, when work is especially sparse, they'll hit up a stage coach, rags covering their faces so that it can't be traced back to them. Jobs like that are easier for Silas to swallow, but even then Payne can see he isn't particularly fond of them either, not like he is with the bounty hunting.

He makes sure to give Silas a bit of his own take from those jobs, hoping that it'll soften the blow. At the very least, he hopes it shows Silas that he _knows_ , even if he doesn’t exactly understand. Payne will step close to him, digging his nose into Silas' cheek, nuzzling. "Make a nest egg," he always says, their little two-person ritual for a job well done, now. Silas always leans into him, sagging his weight into Payne's chest. Payne stands firm and holds him upright. "You're too much an angel, sometimes, Silas." Payne sighs and presses a kiss to his mouth before pulling away. "You can share some of that burden of yours, y'know?"

After that particular job they head over to Colorado Springs, where they run into a couple of fur trappers from Canada. Payne's never had the patience for Canadians, so he gives them a wide berth, leaving the boys to make small talk while he goes to pay for their rooms for the night. His gang is made up of people of habit; it makes things like this easy. Payne always makes sure to get the last room on the ground floor, and Silas always stays with Payne.

He goes into their room and starts to undress, eager to get the chill out of his bones with a bath. The place they're at tonight is more upscale than they're used to, but at the same price to which they're accustomed. People haven't been traveling as much with the slew of storms, and with such slim pickings the owners can't afford to jack up the prices as much as they'd like, neither. Silas and he have their own personal tub inside the room and Payne has plans for them to get as much use out of it as their bodies can stand.

He's naked when Silas slips back into the room, pouring the last of the water he's painstakingly made sure to heat to a temperature that won’t make Silas bitch.

"What took you so long?" Payne asks, turning to look at Silas in the doorway.

Silas has one of the coats the Canadian trappers had been peddling, a huge brown thing that looks like it could keep a man alive even in the middle of an arctic storm. Even in a winter like this, it seems like overkill.

"When have you ever been that cold in your life?" Payne asks.

"It's for you, you mangy sonofabitch." Silas rolls his eyes and tosses the coat across the room. Payne actually has to take a step back when he catches it just so that he doesn't topple over.

Payne slips his arms through the sleeves and shrugs it on. "How much did this cost?" He asks. It's surprisingly comfortable. He decides right then that he won't ever admit to how much he likes it, even upon threat of death. "How do I look?"

"Don't worry about it," Silas says, answering the first question. He doesn't bother with the second, just shrugs out of his own coat and starts working at the buttons of his shirt.

"Come over here and hibernate with me." Payne holds up his arms and makes a show out of turning his fingers into claws, growling ominously. "I'll eat you up."

Silas rolls his eyes as he shakes his pants down to his ankles, kicking them off into the corner of the room. Payne wraps him up in the ends of the coat once he reaches him, sliding his hands into the neck of Silas' long underwear and pushing it down his shoulders, arms, past his chest, over his hips, until it falls to the floor at his feet.

"We're both bare now." Payne makes a point of growling as he slides his hands through the hair that leads down to Silas' groin, changing track at the last moment to grab twin handfuls of Silas' ass. His face flushes, just like Payne was hoping for.

He's gotten so good at making Silas' face heat up whenever he wants it to, even if it's just him feeling embarrassed for Payne's sake, rather than his own. Either way, it gives him what he wants in the end. "Thank you, Silas," he says, walking backwards, using his hold on Silas to guide him along. "Let me thank you, Silas."

"Stop saying my name." His face is still red but his voice is even. He pushes the coat off of Payne and tosses it onto the bed, perfect aim as always. With it off of him, Payne realizes how cold the room actually is. He brings his fingers up to the stiff peaks of Silas' nipples and gives them a tug. Looking at the smooth, unblemished skin covering Silas' arms, he can't help but say, "It's amazing you haven't been marked up yet, living a life like ours."

Silas shrugs and says, "Nothing ever comes close to me, not with you around." Payne feels his own heart stutter to stop for a moment, and his hand clenches tight around Silas' bicep. "You're welcome to leave some of your own, though."

 

* * *

 

"Just how long have you been planning this?"

Payne had woken up alone. Summer nights in Texas are always a torture, but this particular one had seemed to settle on his chest like a fifty pound weight. He wonders if some part of him had known, and that's why he'd felt uneasy for the majority of the day, it’s that what the weight actually was. Silas runs warm, so they hadn't bothered with a sheet. Even in the heat, it hadn't taken long for him to wake from the lack of Silas' heat making his back sweat, used to it as he is.

He'd gone looking for Silas, and now here they were, half a mile from camp, Silas with his whole life packed up into a sack on his back, leading a horse that Payne had bought him for his birthday not a few weeks prior, Payne chasing after him in nothing but a pair of thin pants, not even having bothered to tug his boots on.

"Does it matter?" Silas answers. Payne would strike him across the face, but he's never once laid hands on Silas in that way and he isn't about to start now, even if this is the end. Causing harm to Silas would end up hurting Payne more, anyway.

"'Course it fucking matters, you ungrateful shit," Payne spits. "What is it you want? I'd do anything for you, haven't I shown you that?" _Don't you realize I'd give up anything for you_ , he doesn't say. He already feels raw, too open. He can't give Silas that too, can't say what he's sure Silas already knows, just for Silas to say that it doesn't matter either. "I don't see why you're sneaking off, anyhow. What fucking reason you got to sneak off for, huh? I've never been holding you prisoner."

Silas mutters, "Haven't you?" It’s like a slap to the fucking face and he knows that's exactly why Silas said it. Payne's never had it in him to hurt Silas, but Silas has never had held the same reservations.

"All you had to do was ask," Payne says. It's as close as he can get to saying it, to saying that he'd do anything Silas ever wanted, no matter what it cost him, if only Silas’ tight-lipped, honery ass would ask it of him.

"Why would I want to?" It's then that Payne really realizes this is the end.

Rather than beg, he thinks about the few fights they've had over the years, arguments not about how Payne does things, about what it is the gang does, but about _them_ , and even then Payne has always been happy to sit back and let Silas make the decisions about the speed that they took things, how he let Silas set the tone of their relationship, because who would know better than Silas what they needed? Who better than Silas to know what Payne needed?

He sees now what a mistake that was: that Silas can hardly take care of himself; that he's never really taken care of Payne; and that he's certainly done a shit job at taking care of them and what they have — had, if this is where it’s all ended up.

As soon as he thinks it, his mind tries to convince him that it’s the hurt talking, that’s making him think those things: that Silas took care of Payne fine, up until this moment. Nobody had ever made Payne as happy as Silas made him; tonight doesn't change that. He knows Silas well enough to see that what he really means is: _I'm tired of having to_.

Payne digs his fingers into his palms and stands his ground. "You never was a bean-spiller, were you Silas?" Payne's told Silas everything there is to know about himself. He knows next to nothing about Silas, but he’d always thought all the things he’d learned about him meant more than all those things he never knew.

Turns out that he thought wrong.

Nine years together and just like that it’s gone, almost like it’d never happened at all. He stands there and watches Silas fade away into the darkness.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Yuletide ♥ I've wanted to write a story about these two since I saw the film, but I wasn't exactly sure _what about_. Your amazing prompts turned out to be the exact inspiration I needed to get it done!


End file.
